


That Time Harrison Almost Killed Max

by Wicked42



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Happiness!, Mending friendships, MomGwen, Sickfic, So.... try it out? XD, Whump, also implied child abuse, but then, dadvid, implied child neglect, like max almost dying sour, magic trick goes sour, near-death fic, ok i think i got them all, okay, real sour, whoo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: Harrison's magic trick wasn't over when Neil was coerced into believing in magic. No, for Max, it went on much, much longer. And was far more deadly.For Jellybit!! :D :D





	That Time Harrison Almost Killed Max

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixNineTries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixNineTries/gifts).



> Me: Jelly, I'll have your fic ready soon! I'm just finishing up the last 600 words!
> 
> *3,000 words later* 
> 
> Me: ...
> 
> Me: Oops. 
> 
> \-----------------
> 
> Enjoy, love! :D ALL the sickfic angst, just for you!

Max was _not_ okay, and it was Harrison’s fault. Harrison and his stupid magic, his stupid _something to prove_ trick that should have been just an illusion, but _clearly_ wasn’t. Not when items bigger than Max’s torso kept gushing out his mouth. Not when his stomach churned with the foreign feeling of an intruder in his veins, his lungs, his heart.

It wasn’t like a normal cold. This was nothing like when he had that stomach bug two years ago, or food poisoning from his parents’ subpar cooking skills a year before that. Those had been miserable but manageable. Easy to lock himself in the bathroom and, twelve hours later, feel better.

Easy to take a long shower, freshen up with a cup of broth, and move on with his life.

But this? This felt like he was _dying_.

And it had been going on for days.

The items weren’t _in_ his stomach. He wasn’t vomiting up a bouquet of flowers from his chest to his throat to his lips. No, it was more like a foreign lump near his epiglottis that kept growing, choking him, and every once in a while it would clench threateningly and before Max could react, something would surge out his mouth, leaving petals or feathers or fabric and a sour aftertaste in its wake.

By the third day, Harrison’s spat with Neil was resolved, Nikki was somehow climbing trees and wrestling with wolves like always, and life at Camp went back to normal.

Except for Max.

Max was not okay.

By the fourth afternoon, he could barely move. He dragged himself from activity to activity, bags under his eyes, coughing up roses or some shit. Nikki was too distracted to notice. Neil didn’t seem to care. Not that Max expected him to; no one cared when he got sick. Not his friends, not his parents.

Although it was pretty shitty that even Harrison brushed off his appearance with a blithe, “You should get more sleep, Max,” on their way to lunch that day. Max had flipped off his back, but the magic kid was halfway up the path by then.

He wasn’t a stranger to handling illness on his own. Max’s asshole parents rarely noticed him at all, much less changes in his demeanor. The one time he’d gone into their room at 3am, swallowing a moan, clutching his stomach, face burning, his mother had screamed at him and threw a lamp.

His father hadn’t even woken up.

Max hadn’t died yet. So even though his limbs were shaky, his mind fuzzy, his stomach churning, he dragged himself through the day, just working to a point where he could crawl into his tent and take care of himself properly.

Sleep. Maybe a shower. A blanket. _Sleep_.

Did he say that one already? His mind had been spinning since this morning.

“Jeez, Max,” Nikki chimed from beside him. He hadn’t even noticed her nearby. “You’re _super_ slow today. What’s wrong? Wolf got your feet?”

“Wolf got your feet?” Neil drawled, sounding exasperated. “Nikki, that’s not an idiom.”

“I thought you were here for _science_ camp. Not _critique Nikki’s vocabulary_ camp,” she retorted.

Every word felt like a stake driving into Max’s skull. He hunched into his sweatshirt, shivering, only vaguely aware of the sweat pouring down his face. His eyes settled on the path— _one step in front of the other, just keep moving, only eight more hours until bedtime_ —as they bickered over him.

He might not make it to bedtime.

Hell, he might not even make it to lunch.

“Max—” Neil began, sounding concerned. Ironic, since this had been happening in front of him for _days_ , and the bastard hadn’t spared Max a glance. But now he gripped Max’s shoulder, stopping his slow, agonizing progress to the mess hall. “What’s wrong? You feeling okay?”

Max tried to lift his eyes to Neil’s face, but his body wasn’t working properly. He couldn’t breathe past the ever-present lump in his throat. Couldn’t force his leaden feet to shuffle forward. Couldn’t reassure the kid who’d ignored him for days.

Maybe he really _was_ dying.

“Max!” Neil shook his shoulders.

 _Too late_ , he thought, before his knees buckled and the world went black.

 

* * *

 

 

“David David David _David **David David**_—”

“That can’t be good,” Gwen remarked idly from her position at the corner table of the mess hall.

David paused, halfway between plucking Space Kid’s rocket from his hands. The kid was insistent on playing at the table, and that just meant splatters of mashed potatoes for him and Gwen to clean up later. But when David’s eyes flicked to the open window, to the source of the sound, Space Kid snatched it back from him, beaming as he pretended to set it in orbit around his dinner plate.

Suddenly, though, David had bigger issues. Because that’s when Nikki burst into the hall, unusually white.

“David!!” she exclaimed, barely out of breath but eyes wide with panic. “There’s something wrong with Max!”

The blood drained from his body, and his first, traitorous thought was _no, anyone but him_. Which was ridiculous; he loved all his campers equally, and it’d be horrible if anything happened to any of them. But—but his stomach hadn’t twisted this way when Ered sprained her ankle, or when Nurf gave Harrison a black eye.

In a second, David was out the door, Gwen on his heels. They didn’t have to go far. He was on the dirt path halfway between the pier and the mess hall. But the sight nearly stopped David’s heart: Neil clutching his friend, Max totally limp, lying at an unnatural angle.

“Oh shit,” Gwen breathed. Her voice steadied the way it always did when a crisis happened—David panicked, and Gwen took control. “I’ll go get the first aid kit. And—and maybe a doctor. Should I call 911?”

But David couldn’t respond, because he couldn’t even see what was wrong. How could they help when Max didn’t have any obvious wounds? Was he sick? Terror choked him as David skidded to his knees beside the boys.

“He’s not breathing,” Neil squeaked.

Gwen cursed, whipping out her cell phone.

David wrenched Max from his friend, years of first-responder training flooding back. Although his mind was a frazzled mess, his fingers automatically checked for a pulse, put a hand over Max’s tiny chest to feel for breath. Neil was wrong; he _was_ breathing, but faintly, certainly not enough to stay stable for long.

His heart was pumping, but even that felt irregular. David could feel the fever radiating off him from inches away, but—this wasn’t a sickness. Something was really, truly wrong.

“Neil, there’s an AED in the counselor’s cabin. Get Quartermaster. Hurry,” Gwen barked the orders, and when the lanky boy clamored to his feet, she turned her attention to the phone. “Yes, we have an emergency. A boy’s collapsed at our camp. Ah, ten—”  

David tuned her out, mouth dry, his whole world narrowing to the boy under his hands. Barely breathing. Was his airway obstructed? He tugged Max’s mouth open, but couldn’t see past his bright red gums. Why were they so vivid? That wasn’t a normal color for someone’s mouth.

 _CPR_ , his addled mind whispered urgently. David’s muscle memory took over, and he stacked his palms on top of each other, pressing them firmly into the center of Max’s chest. Two inches deep for children over eight. Breaths weren’t as vital as keeping his heart pumping.

Oh, god, this wasn’t happening. Not at his camp. Not _Max_.

“Come on, buddy,” David cried. _Cried_? But it was true; his cheeks were wet with tears, dripping onto Max’s too-pale face as he locked his elbows, pumping his arms to the _Stayin’ Alive_ song.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah,_

_Stayin’ alive_

_Stayin’ alive_

_Ah ah ah ah_

_Stayin’ aliiiiive—_

“The ambulance is coming. Thirty minutes,” Gwen swallowed hard, kneeling on the other side of Max.

David didn’t dare take his gaze off the boy, didn’t dare stop his ministrations. He wasn’t sure he could respond if he tried. How had everything gone to heck so fast? Max had been fine earlier today, hadn’t he?

But—no, that wasn’t true. He’d been acting sluggish. The last few days had been almost pleasant, devoid of his snide remarks, his sarcastic humor. David should have known something was wrong, should have seen the signs earlier. Should have pulled Max aside hours ago.

Maybe then the boy wouldn’t be dying right now.

Oh _shit_. David released a sob, sweat mingling with tears as the midday heat and physical exertion of CPR began to overtake him. Gwen leaned closer. “I’m ready whenever you need a break. He’ll be okay.” But there was a tremor of terror in her voice he’d never heard before.

“I got the AED,” Neil said, loudly, sliding in the dirt. Gwen plucked the square device from his hands, unzipped it, and tugged a pair of scissors from a tiny kit inside. When she started cutting Max’s hoodie in half, David flinched with every snip. She was careful to work around David’s steady rhythm, careful that he didn’t stop thrusting for more than half a second while she ripped Max’s clothes off his chest.

A few gasps drew her attention to the gathering crowd of kids. David could see them out of the corner of his eyes, hear their hushed whispers like the buzz of angry bees. Gwen rocked back on her heels, ripping into the AED again, tugging out a plastic container with the sticky pads. Her voice was sharp, leaving no room for error.

“Guys. Back to your tents. _Now._ ”

“But what about Max—” Nerris said, her lisp more pronounced than ever. 

“ _NOW_ ,” Gwen roared, and the kids scampered away. Everyone but Neil and Nikki, and oddly enough, Harrison.

“This is my fault,” the magician whimpered.

Gwen worked around David, sticking one pad vertically on Max’s right shoulder, a second horizontally at the left base of his ribcage. He was still unconscious, still barely breathing, his thin body paler than ever.

But he wasn’t David’s focus, in that moment. His palms pumped into Max’s chest automatically, but his eyes trained on Harrison. “Wait. Do you know what happened?” Panic made his tone sharp, and Harrison flinched.

“Y-Yes,” he said. “I did it. I was trying to hit Neil, and I cast a spell on—on Max instead. It was just a trick. I did it with Nikki too, but look! She’s fine!” He gestured towards the green-haired girl, who was unusually silent, staring at Max like she’d never seen anything so terrifying. It wasn’t the defense Harrison clearly hoped for, and fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “It—It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“You should be, you asshole,” Neil snarled, and in an uncharacteristic display, he lunged at Harrison, tackling him to the ground. His face was red with anger, and he raised a fist towards Harrison’s face. The magic kid cowered, shouting “sorry, sorry, sorry!” in a manic chant.

“Kids!” David yelped, but Gwen was on it. She powered on the AED, then abandoned Max to grab both Harrison and Neil by the ears. From their pained expressions, she wasn’t gentle.

“Fucking _look_ at your goddamn friend,” her voice was harsh, cutting through all other noise. “Fucking look at him. Do you think he needs this right now?”

They shook their heads, and she released them with a scowl. “Get back to your tents. Don’t leave until one of us comes to get you. No magic, no fighting, _no funny business_.” Her tone left no room for argument.

With one last look, Neil and Nikki scampered off.

Harrison stayed.

“I—I think I can fix it,” his voice quivered, and when Gwen glared, he cowered, hunching his shoulders as if it would make him four inches tall. But he didn’t leave, which was impressive, considering Gwen’s wrath. “Please. Let me try to fix it.”

“Harrison, we don’t need your fucking magic tricks right now,” Gwen snapped.

But David’s gut twisted, and he stared at Max’s slack expression, even as the AED’s electronic voice ordered him to clear the body— _body_ , not person, as if Max was already dead. They’d done everything science could do, and the paramedics were probably still ten minutes away.

What if Harrison was right? What if he _could_ help?

Were they willing to risk Max’s life over it?

“It won’t get in the way of the AED, right?” David asked, panting for breath. CPR was nothing if not labor-intensive, and already Gwen was readying her palms to take over, even as the AED intoned, “ _Analyzing… analyzing…_ ”

“No, I don’t need to touch him.” Harrison scooted closer, flinching again under Gwen’s narrowed eyes, but David inched towards Max’s feet to make room.

“ _Shock advised,_ ” the AED said.

Gwen paled, but dutifully pressed the button flashing on the device. Max’s tiny form shuddered as a shock rippled through him, kickstarting his heart. It all took barely five seconds, but he still wasn’t breathing.

“ _Resume CPR_.”

Oh, god. It—it didn’t work. Max still wasn’t awake. He’d been _electrocuted_ , and it wasn’t enough to wake him up. David began to tremble, sweat pouring down his face. His tears had dried, but only because he was too tired to cry anymore, too numb to face the truth.

Max might not be okay. 

_No._

Gwen pressed her palms into Max’s chest, now splotchy and purple with the pressure of David’s actions. She began CPR again, counting under her breath as she moved.

Harrison clenched his eyes shut and held his hands over Max’s throat. His vest was ripped, brown with dirt, his hair mussed from Neil’s attack. But he closed his eyes and mumbled what sounded suspiciously like an incantation, and maybe it was the hysteria of the moment, but David swore he saw Harrison’s hands glow.

And then Max gasped.

It was like everyone released a collective breath. Harrison scurried out of the way. David shuddered in relief as Gwen bent over the kid’s face, one hand on his cheek, the other feeling the distinct rise and fall of his chest. Max moaned, eyelids fluttering open, and Gwen laughed. “Welcome back, you little shit.”

He stared hazily at her, dazed and confused, but

_fucking_

_alive_.

David could have cried.

Scratch that. David _did_ cry. Big fat tears as he gripped Max’s arm, smoothed his sweaty hair off his forehead. Max noticed and groaned, although whether that was because of the pain of CPR or his least favorite counselor acting like an idiot, David had no clue.

Harrison was shaking, wringing his hands as Gwen glanced at him incredulously.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?”

But the magician just shook his head and whimpered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

David and Gwen exchanged glances, and Gwen climbed to her feet. She seemed unsteady, the perpetual bags under her eyes deep enough to notice as she motioned for Harrison to follow. “Come on, kid. We need to talk.”

With one last, anguished glance at Max, Harrison obeyed.

David wanted to talk with him. Find out what the heck happened, make sure this was an isolated incident, that Max wouldn’t just collapse from heart failure (or whatever just happened) next week, or next month. But Gwen would get all that information. Max was his main concern right now.

Max, who was drawing shallow breaths, his fingers brushing David’s, still pressed firmly against his bare chest. “M-My sweatshirt,” he croaked, voice barely audible.

“I’ll get you a new one, bud,” David said, forcing a smile. Trying to make it bright, even though his heart hammered in his chest and he couldn’t tear his hand from Max’s chest, couldn’t bear to take away the physical evidence his favorite camper was still breathing.

Max’s hand slumped to the ground again, and his eyes drifted shut. Poor thing must be exhausted. But as long as he was breathing, the AED was silent, and things were okay.

In the distance, the paramedics sprinted down the path, carrying a stretcher, led by a grim Quartermaster.

 

* * *

  

Max didn’t know how long he slept. The next few hours were like a fever dream, hellish moments of awareness where everything ached and breathing _hurt_ and adults shouted over him like he wasn’t even there.

Half the time, he wasn’t. Half the time, he descended into darkness. Not the soft solitude of sleep, where dreams could go one way or another, but were usually colorful and bright and real. No, this was something subtler, a gnawing black that yawned before him in every direction, leaving him abandoned and small and alone.

Always, _always_ alone.

When awareness came, he grabbed at it desperately, choking on that goddamn lump in his throat, clawing his way back to real life. No matter how shitty it was, no matter how much he hated everything, he hated that darkness more.

So when he groaned awake in a hospital room, even though every nerve in his body begged him to sleep, even though a mask was over his nose and mouth, suffocating him, he forced himself to embrace the panic, because panic meant he was _alive_.

And panicking. So… so there was that. His heart raced as his fingers clawed at the mask, only to find they were pricked with needles. Oh shit. _Shit_. Needles were not okay. Needles were what his parents used to get high. Needles meant drugs, and drugs meant a loss of everything that made him _Max_.

His breathing quickened into sobbing gasps, and he tried to rip the needles from his skin. But before he could get a grip, a firm hand rested on his arm, pinning him into place. But—but it wasn’t scary.

It was familiar.

A pasty white hand. A freckled face. Stupid red hair.

David.

 _David_.

No matter how goddamn awful his bubbly counselor was, David would never let anything happen to him. David cared. Too much for some random adult, so much he made Max’s parents look like goddamn strangers, but in that moment, that hospital room, Max wouldn’t have wanted to see anyone else.

“It’s okay,” David said. His voice was bright, but his smile was pained at the edges. Which meant something was wrong. Max whimpered again, struggling against his hold, and David leaned closer, anxious now. “Max, _Max_. It’s okay. You’re fine.”

 _Was_ he fine? Because even though that choking lump in his throat was gone, and he didn’t seem to be coughing up daisies, he still felt like shit. His chest in particular ached dully, a thick pain that exacerbated every time he drew a breath. His limps felt weary, like he was moving through molasses. If he concentrated, he could feel the needles in his hand, a slice of metal intruding in his veins.

Pumping foreign drugs into his system.

Against his better judgment, tears welled in his eyes as fear took hold. It wasn’t panic, now. It was full-blown terror, because adults didn’t care about him enough to help, not even doctors, so if he was in a hospital hooked up to machines, it was because his parents agreed to it, encouraged it, and he didn’t want _anything_ his parents encouraged.

“Get me out,” he wheezed, puffing up the mask over his nose. His words were weak, muffled, while tears leaked into his curly hair. Desperate, scared, he struggled against David’s firm grip. “I wanna go home—”

David’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, though his other hand protected that needle. “Max, calm down, it’s okay, it’s—”

But Max wasn’t listening anymore. If David wouldn’t let him go home, then… then he was in on it. A conspiracy of adults. Maybe he’d gotten tired of Max, just like his mom did. Because she hadn’t advocated putting Max on a bus to summer camp. She’d pitched dumping him in a Walmart and driving away.

He was pretty sure she was joking.

… somewhat sure.

And now David. Maybe their happy camp counselor was more diabolical than Max knew. Maybe Max had gone one comment too far, done one prank too many, and David was fucking sick of it. Turning crazy, just like Daniel. They even looked alike. Maybe that was what David was injecting into him through that needle: poisoned punch—

He thrashed against David, who shouted something unintelligible. A few seconds later, nurses burst into the room, and one of them slipped a milky-white substance into the tubes sticking out of Max’s arm, and no, _no_ , it was too late, the poison seeped into his body

—and darkness descended once again.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he resurfaced, it was with a gasp, like breaking water after drowning. This time, there was no mask over his nose and mouth. No needles in his skin. He was just lying on a white bed, and David was sitting next to him, and music filled the air.

A guitar, he realized distantly.

 _David_ ’s guitar.

The stupid fuck was humming, too. And for once, it wasn’t the Camp Campbell theme song. For once, it was something slower, smoother… softer.

Kind of calming, actually.

Max could have moved. Could have screamed and cried and maybe threw aside the bedsheets and fucking _ran_. He didn’t like hospitals. He should leave. But—David would catch him. David _always_ caught him.

And honestly, it sounded like a lot of work. Work Max couldn’t summon the strength to perform, because that would require sitting upright, and he wasn’t even sure he could do that. Not yet, anyway.

So he stayed in bed and listened to David strumming his guitar, humming so softly in time with the music that Max didn’t realize he was harmonizing until several minutes later. Who knew David could actually play something other than that goddamn camp song? If he played like _this,_ Max might let him get through a whole melody.

He timed his breaths with the music, because that made him feel a lot better than panicking about doctors and nurses and needles. When he really concentrated, he could feel the dull pain of his chest, like someone had beat it with a baseball bat. But also... the rhythmic thumping of his heart, _ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum_ ming in time with the music.

Eventually, he dared to peek at David. If he moved, the counselor might stop, but—maybe if he squinted, David would think he was still asleep.

But David had his eyes closed. He wasn’t even looking at Max. He was just leaning in a plastic chair, eyes closed, foot tapping, a smile tilting his lips, lightly plucking strings on that stupid guitar.

Well, okay. Maybe it wasn’t so stupid.

Of course, his neck must have prickled or _something_ because Max hadn’t been gawking twenty seconds before David opened his eyes and squeaked in alarm.

Max had that effect on people.

The music stopped. For a long moment, David stared at Max staring at him, like both of them were trying to decide how the other would react.

Finally, Max scoffed and said, without malice, “Should have known you’d still be here.”

It was all the invitation David needed, apparently. He rested the guitar on the floor— _damn_ , Max thought, because now that the melody was over he could hear the heart monitor beeping softly in the corner of the room, and he realized there were still cords taped to his chest after all, and the very thought of being tethered here had his breath shortening and his fingers curling against the stiff sheets.

David noticed. Quick as a whip, he snatched the guitar back up. All he did was draw his thumb down the six strings, but the rich chord sunk into Max’s soul. He relaxed again, too tired to look appropriately annoyed.

Wasn’t like there was anyone here to keep up appearances for, anyway.

It was a nice break.  

David smiled, brighter than a goddamn sun. “I thought this might help. Music always helps me when I’m nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Max said, but that just reminded him _what_ he should be nervous about, which was the hospital and the heart monitor and—

David strummed the guitar again.

Max glared. “Stop doing that.”

“Sorry, bud,” David replied, lightly, but his fingers absently plucked a few more strings, and the stupid look of happiness on his face made Max want to smile too.

He didn’t, because some things just couldn’t be exhausted out of him.

Over the soft soundtrack of his guitar, David peered at Max, his brows knitting together in concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Really? Because your heart stopped,” David’s voice was pained, and Max finally noticed the bags under the counselor’s eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his ridiculous poof of hair was slouching, just a bit.

Huh. David handled just about everything Max threw at him at Camp. Who knew the one thing to really fuck him over was… almost… dying.

No, no. Not _almost_.

Max clenched his eyes shut, concentrating on the continuous melody. David was playing in time with the heart monitor’s beeping, which was weird, since it kept speeding up and slowing down.

In time with his heart, Max realized belatedly.

It gave him something to focus on. How deep breaths and calm thoughts—thoughts of Nikki and Neil and wacky adventures and crazy pranks—made the beeps slow, how David smoothly adjusted the music to match the tempo, how suddenly it was kind of _cool_ he was hooked up to a heart monitor.

When he finally sorted his thoughts, the only thing he could manage was a disgruntled, “I’m gonna _kill_ Harrison.”

“Ah, Neil already tried,” David replied, and the stress in that sentence made Max grin.

“Good. He owed me,” Max said.

David chuckled, and in the silence, he said, “I’m sorry, bud.”  

Max glanced at him, wary now.

But David had freaking tears in his eyes, because of goddamn course he did, and Max was just about to squirm away and scold him for making things awkward when David whispered, “I’m so, so sorry. Sorry we weren’t there during Harrison’s magic trick. Sorry we didn’t notice you weren’t feeling good afterwards. Sorry we couldn’t _help_ you.”

“Yeah, it was pretty shitty,” Max said, offhandedly. He’d meant it as a joke—of course he wasn’t really mad at David; the guy hadn’t even _been_ there—but David hunched over his guitar, his fingers resting on the strings as silence filled the air.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Max far preferred David’s music to that fucking heart monitor.

“I’m just—I’m so sorry.” He buried his head in his hands, elbows resting on the guitar. “A safe summer. That’s what I promised all the parents. And then this happens, and I just—” David’s shoulders trembled. “Max, I was so scared.”

“Scared another kid would die on your watch?” Max said, almost coldly. Gwen had already mentioned the paperwork involved in that. That was probably all David was considering.

But of course that wasn’t true, because David stared right at him and said, “Scared _you_ would die. Max, I love you. You’re the best kid at Camp Campbell. I hope you know that.”

Max didn’t know that.

He didn’t know that at _all_.

The words out of David’s mouth had his jaw dropping, his eyebrows raising in shock. He tried to think of a sarcastic remark— _love me, Jesus, David, I’m not interested in someone twice my age_ —but the words died on his lips.

And tears brimmed in his eyes.

Had his parents _ever_ told him that?

Yes. Once, during a dinner party, where they were pretending to be normal for his dad’s old boss, where Max was dressed in a stuffy second-hand button-down shirt, and his mother burnt the pot roast, and Mom and Dad both tried to act like they weren’t going to get high and wasted later that night.

His mother had put a hand on his and smiled warmly and said, sweeter than gasoline, “Oh, of course, Max is our darling. We just love him so.”

And their guests had beamed and dinner had gone on and when they left, Dad locked Max in his room with a can of soup and half a bottle of water. And they got so trashed no one let him out for three days.

Max tried not to think about that night, or the nights after. The word “love” had always tasted so sour to him.

So fake.

But there was nothing fake about David’s anguish. His green eyes were pleading, begging Max to accept his apology, his _love_ , and Max didn’t know what to do. So he just sat there like some stupid sad sack while tears spilled over his cheeks and David realized what was happening and bent over his guitar to sweep the little boy in a fierce hug.

“It’s true,” David whispered in his poofy hair. “Don’t tell the other campers, but you’re my favorite.”

And Max cried harder, because he hadn’t been anyone’s favorite, not _ever_.

 

* * *

  

They went home the next day. By all accounts and purposes, Max’s recovery was a marvel to modern science. Nothing short of a miracle. But David had told him the truth; it wasn’t a miracle. It was magic, same shit that got him into this mess in the first place.

Still, when the doctor said he could go home, Max wasn’t _about_ to argue.

David, running on 48 hours without sleep, tag-teamed with Gwen when they got back to camp. Max didn’t think anyone could be more annoying than David, but somehow Gwen managed it. She hovered to an embarrassing level, letting the other kids have mostly free reign while she reminded Max to take it easy, to not wander off, to come take his medicine, and also how was he feeling _every second of the day_?

Of course, Nikki and Neil weren’t much better. They’d flipped from not paying attention at all to paying _far too much_ , and their questions of his wellbeing were worse than Gwen’s.

Not to mention the other kids’ staring, the hushed whispers, the soft, comforting tones they took when he walked past. Like everyone was waiting for him to have another goddamn heart attack, even though that wasn’t what happened in the first place and they _all_ knew it.

Finally, Max couldn’t take it.

When Neil said, “Ah, maybe we should just sit here and color instead of swimming camp, Max,” and Nikki nodded along like this was the best idea ever, Max’s last fucking thread of sanity _snapped_.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Neil, are you goddamn _six_? I don’t want to color! I don’t want to do anything sedentary, not with you and fucking _mama bear_ ,” he jerked a thumb at Gwen, who only looked mildly offended, “acting like helicopter parents all of a sudden. Leave me the fuck alone!”

And he stormed off.  

And of fucking course, Gwen followed. Max tried outrunning her, but _damn,_ she had a lot of experience catching kids. So instead he spun on her, face hot with anger. “I said to leave me alone. You’re worse than they are!”

“Well, that’s my job,” she replied, crossing her arms. “I promised David I’d look after you, so you might as well get used to having a goddamn shadow.”

“Never knew you were so loyal,” Max sneered.

“To David? Always.” She smirked maliciously. “Also because you’re a little shit, but Camp would be pretty boring without you.”

Max threw up his hands. “I was only sick in the first place because of Harrison’s stupid trick! You have a problem, take it up with him!”

“I don’t have a problem with Harrison,” Gwen waved, and Max spun to see the kid in question standing under the canopy of the nearby trees, gnawing his lower lip. Max glared, but Gwen just said, “Although I think you might. Go talk to him. He’s been trying to apologize for days now.”

“I don’t need his apology,” Max snapped.

“Well, then maybe you owe him a thanks, because he’s the one who saved your life.”

That wasn’t true. Harrison fucked everything up in the first place. He’d gotten Max sick, then conveniently ignored his worsening condition, right up until it was impossible to ignore. If Max wanted to get technical, _David_ saved his life.

Well, David and Gwen.

The second of whom was staring at him now, expectantly, one hand on her hip. She wasn’t going anywhere, and—well, Nikki told him what they’d done. CPR. The AED. Without their help, Harrison wouldn’t have had the chance to work whatever magic he’d used to finally set things right.

So with a growl, Max stomped over to the trees.

And for once, Gwen kept her distance.

Harrison, on the other hand, seemed to curl into himself under Max’s glower. It gave Max a rush of power, which was _far_ preferable to the spike of fear he’d been feeling around the magician’s company lately.

“What do you want?” Max said, crossing his arms. He was wearing a green hoodie for once, a promised present after the counselors had sliced his old one open.

Harrison stuffed his hands into his pockets, but scuffed his boot against the grass. “I—well, I wanted to say… I’m sorry. Okay? I’m really, really sorry.”

“Wow. The arrogant magician apologizing for his ways. There’s a trick,” Max sneered.

Harrison flinched like he’d been struck, obviously drawing parallels between this conversation and what’d happened with Neil just days earlier. He sunk even lower into himself, so he and Max were almost the same height. “I deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

A beat of silence passed between them, where Max glared and Harrison avoided his gaze. And trembled. And—oh, _shit_ , was he crying? Max backpedaled, because for all his cruel words, he wasn’t in the game of making kids cry. “Jesus, Harrison. Pull yourself together.”

But the magician was full-on sobbing now, digging his palms into his eyes. “I just—I didn’t realize it hadn’t gone away on its own. That trick was never supposed to be permanent. And… and now everyone’s afraid of me and they’re _right_ to be afraid, I’m a goddamn monster, and I hurt people, I _kill_ people, and—”

“Oh, shit,” Max said, awkwardly. He glanced at Gwen, realized she was still watching, eyes narrowed, but wasn’t going to intervene. With little else to do, he pat Harrison’s arm. “Ah, come on. I-It was a shitty thing to do, but—you still helped me. And that was pretty cool.” When Harrison didn’t reply, Max heaved a sigh and muttered, “You’re not a monster, man.”

“I am—”

“No, you’re not!” The calm, comforting demeanor vanished as Max’s patience dwindled. “You’re just a fucking kid. A kid with some pretty awesome abilities. Listen, you idiot, it’s real simple. Just don’t use your magic tricks on _people_ , and you’re fine. Got it?”

Harrison sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes. They were rimmed in red, almost like this wasn’t the first time in the last few days he’d broken down. Max sincerely hoped it’d be the last, though. He couldn’t handle this goddamn soap opera drama.

“Got it, magic kid?” he repeated, forcefully.

“G-Got it,” Harrison whimpered.

Max sighed. “Then… then we’re good.” He raised his fist, and after a moment of pure shock, Harrison bumped it.

And with that, the magic trick was over.

For good, this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a sucker for David playing the guitar for Max, and it calming him down. Love love LOVE CollarsandPlaids' amazing Dadvid guitar fics. I was definitely channeling those a bit here!
> 
> But also whew! First (and hopefully last KNOCK ON WOOD) time my CPR/AED training has actually been useful! Mwahaha! What are these skills good for if not fodder for our writing, yep? 
> 
> ... and saving lives. Good for that too, I suppose. >.>
> 
> Okay, but I kind of adore Harrison. He's an asshole sometimes, but they all are sometimes, and I just... what a sad little magic panda. T.T


End file.
